


Ardent Velocity

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Hot Weather, M/M, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 04:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21229958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In the heat, there are shadows. Long and drawn out, sometimes tucked away. They are the refuges of deserts and seasons. Sometimes, unexpectedly, of Kings. No one would be foolish enough to take one of royal blood to such places - not without reason.But Vernon Roche has always been shaky with logic. And worse at playing games.





	Ardent Velocity

It was too hot. Too hot to be inside, too hot to be on a bed. The sheets stuck to his exposed skin, sucking in the moisture and sweat and the straw had shifted too much, leaving the mattress uneven and sunken. There was no air flowing in, save for the cracks between weathered boards, and what drifted through was too sickly sweet and humid to be a relief. The choking scent of ripened wheat, cloying blossoms, and sweat-slickened horses. Probably didn’t help that he was getting ploughed as well, but that was, well, complicated. Besides, what else did one do in the heat of summer?

Actually, there were a lot of things he could be doing. As should his _King_. Training exercises, supply checks, border patrols, boundary fortifications, castle repairs, and so forth. A host of things, really. Hell, even in the rathole he ‘owned’, he could have been sealing the cracks with a mixture of tar and cord, or cleaning up the reconnaissance plans he had scrawled over bundles of ripped and worn paper. Or fixing the nicks in his Temerian steel sword.

But Foltest had been _bored_. Sick of dealing with dishonest noblemen scheming to gain more land and power, he claimed. He had thrown on a slim cloak and simple garments and slipped out before dawn broke over the city walls. Carefully enough that it didn’t rouse suspicion - at least to the normal castle layabouts and dimwitted guards - but not obscure enough that he didn’t pick up his footsteps. A distinct, regal gait that only his King could ever hold.

And it was his job to see everything. To _know_ everything, even when he was spinning from lack of rest. So, he had moved, and so began the game. Spy following Monarch; stealth versus inquisition. Soldier worrying about his Leader. It had been written in tales long before he was born.

Besides, he couldn’t, in good conscience, let him just wander the streets even if he wasn’t bound by eternal vows. Vizima was a shithole. Foltest was nobility. No, above that. He was their bloody _King_. A Monarch’s boots should not touch the filth of diseased streets. Yet Foltest willingly would. It would be endearing if the city wasn’t full of fucking bastards who didn’t appreciate it. They still had the gaul to speak on the Striga and whisper on what his seed would produce next. Hence the reason why he didn’t sleep most nights. In case his dagger had to be plunged into whoreson necks.

It had spurned him on. To reach out and nearly clasp the rough, woolen cloak as it swept through open plazas and streets. For him to nearly beg in public for sense to reach his sovereign - _his salvation_ \- about what he was ploughing thinking.

Then Foltest had sharply turned, before he could react. And it all led to this.

“Roche,” the hiss came, breaking his thoughts and memory, the husky voice making him shudder run down into his bones, his forehead sinking further against the soaking sheets. It was unfitting for a King, this pathetic den, but he had no where else to bring him that wouldn’t raise brows. And Foltest was too curious for his own good, smirking and prying for him to take him somewhere he deemed safe, yet refusing to go back to the castle. Because he knew the damn game and he played it better than anyone else.

“Roche,” his Lord repeated, and he against felt his body shake with need at the sound of his voice, his insides struggling to clench around the cock that was buried deep within.

Honestly, he meant to just stop and change weapons. He had lighter ones than his Zweihänder; less fucking conspicuous things that could be expertly concealed. Only things were never simple, especially when he was trying to do the right thing. His weapon was discarded for something else and he found himself on his back with a King above him, a restlessness forming the tension between them.

The red string that held his outer gambeson was pulled and from there, everything else unraveled. Too fast, perhaps, with little explanation or doubt. The heat blotted out sense, even from someone as well trained as Foltest, and the crawlspace had a unique tendency to become a forge of bad ideas. Where his King had been seduced by the haze of calefaction and torridity. 

No, it had been because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Vows and bloody loyalty and his damned lust for what wasn’t his. How stupid when an attic was hardly a safe place for the King of Temeria, Prince of Sodden. Yet he was still there with him, silently begging him to keep going.

His longing was a curse; a poison. And it was going to get them both killed.

He closed his eyes, giving into the feeling for a second. Into the wet thrusting, the feel of hot palms on his stomach and hip, the sound of his King’s laboured breathing as their skin met and his undershirt rode up near his collar. It dazed him, his own pants growing louder, before they were swallowed and he forced his mind to calm. He had to stay in control. For his King and for Temeria’s enemies - ones who would love to find them in their current position. Vulnerable to axes and blades. Exposed in every sense of the word - everything discarded save for thin undershirts soaked in sweat.

Safety. _Safety_. That’s why he had roused after him that morning. It should be his only thought, not his trembling fevor.

Only it was getting harder to think as the temperature rose in the confined space, combined with the way in which Foltest was fucking him. _Dominating him_. The air was filling with dust particles, the straw mattress constantly shifting as the boards creaked under the weight of Foltest’s rhythmic thrusts. Outside, he could hear voices streaming in and out. Beggars wandering through the alleyways to get to better squatting, marching from guards, singing from poor maids, clatters from windows being slammed open and shut. A dog barked loudly then stopped, then started again.

But it didn’t compare to the thumping in his ears. The way every breath from his monarch felt like a thunderstorm in his head.

He spread himself wider, fisting the sheets and straw as he did, fighting not to lose himself. But _gods_ above he wanted to. Foltest paused, his own weight shifting, before his chest pushed against his back, mounting him as if he was a Fiend trying to break through a broken wall. His hips ground down against his ass, plunging his cock in deep, and when he tightened, Foltest pulled out to readjust. Just to drive him mad.

The second thrust hit where he had wanted his King to avoid. Without thinking, Roche inadvertently arched, gasping in shock at the feeling that jolted through him. “F-Fuck!”

“Roche?” Foltest groaned near his ear, and he was subjected to his King’s hot tongue running over the back of it. It didn’t help. “Did you like that?”

How was he so good at this? It didn’t feel fair. He was supposed to be in the bloody castle. Ploughing safe. Not…

“Roche,” his name was moaned, deep into his ear, purposely sending shivers down his spine and forcing his blood to race in his brain, scrambling it worse than the heat. He refused to answer, responding only by burying his face back into the sheets and ignoring the curious chuckle that came from his Majesty. As if he knew what he was thinking. Or, worse, he had now understood what made him weak.

_Vulnerability_ was a disgrace. Beyond shameful. But for a moment, he wanted to indulge in it. It had been too long since he had let himself enjoy what was happening to him.

Before he could think or some up with something - anything - to answer, Foltest settled in. His left arm snaked under him, holding him tight to himself, almost possessively, while the other went down. It ran over his lower stomach, following the scars and hair until the tips rested just above the base of his pendulous cock. Enough to be tempting, but not touch. His ragged breath didn’t help the situation and he tried to lean up, but Foltest was stronger than he looked.

Of course he was. Only idiots ever considered him weak, and he was now in that category. Ploughing hell. He had marched armies, for fuck’s sake. What was suppressing one stupid soldier?

“Your Majesty-” he attempted to say, but his King wasn’t having any of it. He pressed his mouth against his left ear, grabbing hold of the bottom to tug, and it sent a shockwave down him, like the entirety of his body’s blood rushed from all extremities to his dick. “F-Fuck!”

“Roche,” Foltest’s voice rumbled against him, his voice low and husky. Thick with a terrifying lust and dripping with the summer heat. “I want to hear you.”

“That-”

“Vernon,” his King growled, cutting him off from whatever protest he had sputtering on his tongue. “I mean it. Don’t make me order you to.” His lips dragged down, moving to slide to the nape of his neck, and his teeth grazed the thin skin. Over the blue ink of a dagger wrapped around a lily. “I won’t go back to the castle until I hear you say my name.”

The air suddenly became unbearable, making his head feel light as blood flooded over his face in embarrassment at His Majesty’s words. He didn’t want to know the reason, even when the rebellious part of him was spitting and snarling with questions, and he responded by shoving his face into the sheets and straw, burying his flustered and annoyed expression in it. He didn’t care how stifling it was. For once, the heat didn’t bother him - because it didn’t compare to his bloody humiliation.

Someone would hear. They’d _know_ his inclinations and see him exposed in a way he didn’t even want the gods to see. His King didn’t deserve the scandal and he shouldn’t even fucking have tempted him to dance with it. This wasn’t _how_ the game was played.

Despite that, Foltest only chuckled, sliding his hands away from his body to brace himself by his chest. Then he began once more. Tentative, for a few thrusts. Then bold. Then hard. As if he didn’t care who found out.

_He cared._ Only it was hard to think when one was getting roughly fucked.

It rocked him into the sheets, driving him into gasping and struggling for a grip. He fisted the thin blanket beneath him, strands of straw caught in his grasp, and the sounds of wet skin meeting once again filled the air. Only this time it was louder, as Foltest’s sack slapped against his own, his cock making a sloppy sucking noise every time he nearly pulled out completely. His downward thrust pushed him harder against the mattress and it left him dizzy, his eyes rolling back slightly with pleasure. He was literally being fucked into the ground.

Wasn’t this what he wanted? To be dominated by his King? No, he didn’t want it in the damn crawlspace he slept in because he was too cheap to rent a townhouse. He didn’t want it on a mattress that kings shouldn’t be found dead on. Yet he had taken the opportunity - only the gods would know why - and Foltest has responded. First by smirking, then with intrigue, followed by mutual lust. One that was now driving him mad. These weren’t the sounds a ruler should make, but he was hearing them as he spurned his King on toward an orgasm. Debasing him because he had the heart of a whore.

A low groan came from deep within his King, and it nearly made him come in response, his thighs shaking. Fuck, he had to hold on. This wasn't _right_.

There had been room to deny him. To command things to end and to return to the palace, feigning ignorance and sinking into bliss. Yet he was fucking him, a whoreson; a bloody bitch with a temper that rivaled the anger of desert sands.

Another groan of pleasure escaped his Lord and it further sent him spiraling. No, he couldn’t. This-

“_Roche._”

It sent a crack in his mind. Slowly spilling away the rational part of his thoughts and the awareness he had that they were unassailable. He didn’t care about dogs barking in the distance or whores tempting bastards down the alley. His focus pinpointed on the sensation between his legs. Of his King, the Prince of Sodden. Sovereign of Pontaria and Mahakam, Suzerain of Ellander, senior protector of Brugge, Angren and Riverdell. He was thrusting into him, making his sharp mind dull and his own cock drip with desperate need. And in turn, his King was moaning for _him_.

“Roche,” Foltest groaned again, his voice thick, and he snapped. His feet dug into the straw and he raised his hips up. He fucking needed it.

Without thinking, he let out a hot, wet gasp, struggling to raise his head, and when he took in the thick air, his body trembled, stuttering out whimpers as if he had been whipped. “F.. Fol…” He couldn’t say it. His King slowed, leaning forward, pressing him down again into the mattress. Suffocating the part of him that was too proud and fearful to say what he meant. But he needed it. Oh, gods, did he need Foltest to fuck him.

“What was that, Roche?” Foltest’s regal, _strong_ voice purred. He clenched around him hard, trying to make him understand. It didn’t work. He wanted something verbal - truthful. 

“Sire,” he whimpered, shuddering deeply as Foltest began picking up his pace again, his mouth moving to slip over the back of his neck, his teeth gently biting the flesh. Nipping and licking, trailing down to the crook of his neck. He couldn’t stop himself from bucking, his mind melting into stupidity. “Your Majesty… Fol…” He swallowed the moan that caught in his throat. “Fol-Foltest!”

“Again, Roche,” his King urged, the smirk that was obviously on his lips seeping through his voice and into his skin.

“Foltest,” he groaned, his nails digging into the sheets, nearly piercing through. He was losing it. Then again, what was sanity in the face of ecstasy? “Oh, fuck, Foltest, please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please,” he begged, his voice nearly cracking. It was beyond humiliation, yet he needed it, the heat invading his bones and sinew, his cotton shirt soaked with sweat, bunching around his arms. His voice imitated what he had learned - heard - over the years. Of a decade trapped in a brothel, listening to forbidden things and holding them in his own gut for desire. “Fuck me. Fuck me! Breed _me_!”

Foltest’s right hand moved, sliding over his collar, and his left grasped his wrist, holding him steady. Locked under his control. “As you wish,” he moaned into his ear, and he couldn’t help but release his last bit of pride at the sound of how turned on Foltest sounded. He shut off his logic - the soldier, spy, and mutilator - and let the fever take over. It left him making sounds his dignity repressed earlier. Whispers of encouragement that morphed into pleads for his King.

The boards began to thump under them hard, the scratching, needle-like straw ripping at his stomach below, but Foltest had him pinned, his cock beating into his body, at full strength and with renewed vigor. Like a metronome left on the highest setting. He drove in to the hilt, making sure every subsequent thrust after achieved the same depth, and Roche only melted to it, his legs spread wide to feel more. He wanted every damn inch - fuck, more than that - and his fingers struggled for bearings, his voice stammering out nonsense.

Foltest’s was clear. _Encouraging_. “Good boy, Roche.”

It shouldn’t have affected him like it did. Praise such as that in his situation. But gods, did he moan in pleasure at being acknowledged for his submission.

There was another readjustment, though it was brief, and Foltest’s hands moved to fisting his sweat-soaked shirt, holding it tight as he fucked into his willing, overheated body. Wet with oil, sweat, and beads of humidity. His skin was sopped with moisture, softened by it, and every thrust left an impact. Every quick movement of skin against his own rang out a melodious, sloppy sound. He only added to it with his begging, his head empty of anything but his Lord - his Grace. He was rewarded with another groan into his ear. 

His hole was becoming too slick, unable to properly grip onto his king, and he feverishly began bucking back. Out of sync, but he needed it. He had to get him _deeper_.

Foltest understood; It stopped being a rhythm. His thrusts turned erratic, without flow, only with the means to pleasure, and it left him near howling with desire underneath. They had reached the limit - his King needed to come. It was too fast for him to comprehend and hold on to, yet right to drive every bit of blood in him to boil and shake. Everything rose, like a hurricane encroaching the shore, and he was suspended for a second in madness. His body throbbed for Foltest, his panting hot and frenzied, his mind full of delirium. 

For a second, he was lucid. Just enough to call out to him; begging. Pleading beyond all reason. He needed to break and let him know.

“_Foltest!_”

His King groaned deeply against his neck in acknowledgement.

_He understood._

It hit him, as if a sword had been swung and cracked his skull in two. The buildup released and his lust became silent, drowned by the fact that his mouth had gone dry and his mind had stopped functioning. His come spilled into the thin space between his hips and the blankets, rendering the fabric sticky and white before it clung to the wet skin of his stomach. Foltest kept going, still unable to reach his climax, even as he was sinking down, delirious, his very soul drowning in wretched bliss.

No, this… He couldn’t falter just yet. His body clenched, his gasping and moans and utter hazy mind working furiously, and he bucked back, trying to encourage him. He could feel how close he was, how the seams of his shirt were being ripped as his King worked himself to that same edge. He wanted him to have it, to get off on _him_.

There was a sudden pause, his Lord’s breath hitching, and his flesh was grabbed at the sides. Painfully. Nails dug in, slipping down when they couldn’t find a grip, and a low, deep groan filled the room. Like a beast braying at a twilight hour. Then he thrust in again, down far enough that there was no space between them, his King’s hips grinding down. Pushing his releasing seed in further. _Breeding_ him like he wanted, so that he fucking felt it.

Foltest had graciously come inside.

Then he was off. He pulled out without a word and Roche couldn’t help but gasp in exhaustion as he felt himself grow cold and empty, his body sagging against the soiled bedding and his thighs still trembling from the aftermath. The air was still disgusting - dense with an oppressive, muggy texture - but now he could taste himself on it. And it clung to his cooling sweat.

For a moment, maybe more, he was suspended in it. His blood weakly throbbed through himself, trying to flow back to his extremities, and his awareness focused on the fact that his lower stomach was aching. Groaning from his desire to be treated like a… a whore. His fatigue took over before he could fully realize the meaning and things began to repair itself as he unwittingly slept. His senses came back. Ones that weren’t too happy with what he put them through. 

Who the fuck would?

Logic and tact were the first to inform him of what he had done, and by the time he was able to stir, his shame had come back in full force, splotching humiliated red patches over his cheeks. It snapped him up, like he had been branded with an iron, and his nerves spattered to life, driving him into a state of near frenzied fevor.

“My Lord,” were his first post-coital words, and he kicked around the mattress, reaching for a knife in case he had to use it, his senses aware that his King was not near him. Instead of danger, he found Foltest was sitting calmly against the wall, a leather tome in hand, his clothes undisturbed and it caused him to blink. Foltest merely raised his head, peering down at him for a moment before he closed the book.

How long had he been out? Or, for that matter, how the hell did his King not looked perturbed by anything?

“Vernon,” he said, his voice unaffected by his outburst. “I pay you a good salary, don’t I?”

Roche could only stare, utterly confused, his nerves still vibrating with adrenaline for war. “Ye… Yes, you-”

“Do you not use it for anything?” Foltest continued, his eyes moving around the attic in deliberate judgment. “I know certain meals still cause you illness, but you don’t even have any bloody water around here.”

That made him flush.

“Are you sleeping in your office again? I told you to stop that.”

Just like that, reality hit him, and the humiliation burned over his face like he had been scalded. Not for what had been done, but for the accusation levied at him in that moment. Slowly, he staggered up, refusing to show discomfort at the bruises that were going to form, and he dropped his knife to the straw, no longer needing it - for now. He found his leggings stuffed in his boots and slowly started to dress, taking his time as he did, his ears a shade of red that matched his linings.

What was the time? Not dusk, clearly, but the air was no longer as thick as it had been. Meaning Foltest had probably been officially ‘missing’ for at least fourteen hours. Ploughing hell, the entire city was probably trying to burn itself down at that point. Or celebrating. Either way, he knew his night was going to be spent trawling for loose tongues and flimsy loyalties.

“I must say, Roche, I don’t quite like this place either,” Foltest started up again as he eased himself off the floor. “I don’t understand why you insist on living like you’re still in the gutters.”

His cheeks flamed at the insult. “I don’t like luxuries, Sire,” he mumbled.

“You consider a proper bed a luxury?”

He swallowed the indignant sigh his throat wanted to make. He was back to being a soldier and his snappiness wouldn’t be tolerated, not even by himself. “Bed are easily burned. And homes can be raided by anyone. I prefer my solitude.”

“By living like a rat?”

“Your Majesty-” he struggled, his fingers tying the knots to his left legging tighter than he wanted. Better than showing his embarrassment. “I-”

“Fine, Roche, I can see you’re getting agitated,” he waved him off, moving to place the tome back where it had been on the warped floorboards. To be forgotten again until he needed to re-learn the etiquette of the Queen Meve’s court. “But really, Vernon, I’d prefer you stay somewhere else. This doesn’t befit you.”

He stopped lacing up his boots to turn and stare at his King, perplexed. He truly didn’t understand - why did it matter? - and Foltest finally met his eyes, his face expressionless and regal, yet there was always a hint of something more behind it. Something almost defenseless and guilty. “You’ve very important to me,” he said quietly.

A sewing pin could have dropped at that moment and the entire world would have heard.

The words rattled his mind before he forced himself to process them, his body reacting as it did. The saliva which had been in his mouth moments before vanished and the lightness and humidity of the summer suffocated his brain, leaving him dizzy and hot. Worse, his heart started to quicken until he tasted it at the back of his throat, pounding and throbbing, as if it wanted him to vomit it out.

Foltest held his gaze, his own features beginning to flush before he shook his head and broke the tension between them, moving to pluck his cloak off the nail on the wall and brush it down.

Roche forced all of his attention on dressing, fighting every synapse and wavelength that tried to make him think on what the fuck just _happened_. He was not going down the path of insanity any more than he had that day, and it left him tightening his belts hard enough to cause marks on his skin. Fuck it. There was a time and a place to set up chessboards and players, and this was fucking not one of them. He was already involved with too many opponents. He didn’t need to add the King of Temeria to another board - the one already sticky with lust.

Fucking balls, he was an idiot.

“Will you return to the castle now, My Lord?” he asked, his voice struggling to sound like anything other than uncomfortable and fretting. If Foltest noticed, he didn’t say, and instead took his time putting on his cloak, wrapping it around himself so that he looked indistinguishable from any other stupid, dirty peasant. How he blended in so well, he’d never figure out. 

“I keep my promises, Roche.”

Again, he felt like he was going to expel his heart from his mouth. Violently. Either that or get hard again.

“Come on,” Foltest said, his voice growing heavy. “I suppose I should see what damage was done while I was gone.”

“Yes, Sire,” Roche said, snapping a sword to his side and he quickly crossed the floor to reach the stairs first, his hand grasping the hilt of his blade. His King said nothing to his action, merely waiting as he took the first step, the awkwardness between them refusing to be named.

That was when the pain hit him and Roche went rigid, a distinct bite shooting up from his backside.

His King - Sovereign, Lord, Master, deity - grasped his arm when he saw him halt and go rigid. Out of real, tangible concern. “Roche? What’s the matter.”

He kept his mouth shut. He was not going to admit what was wrong.

“Roche?”

He sucked it in, moving to re-wrap his chaperon that was slipping down his sweating forehead, and he recovered the best he could. His ass throbbed, mocking him. Did he really think he could just get up and run around? He had at least twenty more stairs to go.

“Roche,” Foltest said one last time and he buried his suffering. He was not going to let a sore arse keep him from his duties.

“It’s nothing,” he remarked, his hand moving to slap against the wall. For leverage. Not that he was trying to mask his pain, of course not. “Nothing at all, my Lord.”

“Are you-”

“Please,” he said, stomping down a few more stairs, cursing every bloody jolt of pain that his stretched ass felt and the slickness that was building between his legs. _Did he really think his Majesty’s come wouldn’t spill out of his ass? Fucking hell._ “Before all of Temeria decides to overreact to your absence.”

His King finally complied. “I doubt it will be that dramatic.”

“Trust me, my Lord. I think it will be worse than we can imagine.” It always was in his mind.

—


End file.
